“Absolutely.”
“The hollandaise is an old family secret. That lemony zing? Do you taste it?”
“I like the zing.”
“Thought you would.” Franklin replaced Landry’s plate with a fresh one filled with more eggs Benedict and cottage potatoes, and sat opposite him. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. Landry’s mother would call that bad manners, but times had changed and even Landry put an elbow on the table now and then.
“You really think this is going to work?” Frank asked.
“If you can get Cardamone here.” The hollandaise really was zingy. He’d have to remember to get the recipe.
“And he’ll end up in supermax?”
“That’s my guess.”
“Good. He’s a dangerous guy. Not only is he a spook, but he was special forces. You know how those guys are. They’re nothing but glorified assassins. I’ve heard that once they get a taste for it, they can never go back.”
Landry shrugged.
“What I’m really worried about is Grace. She’s not part of this.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“You see, she was just being supportive. You know how husbands and wives talk about everything? It was like that. Are you married?”
“I have a wife and a daughter.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about. I’d really like to keep her out of this.” He paused. “You know what it’s like to love someone, really love someone? That’s how I feel about Grace. I imagine that’s how you feel about your wife. More strawberries? There’s plenty.”
“No, thanks. But I like this hollandaise.”
“It’s good, isn’t it? But you see, Grace, she’s the love of my life. I don’t know about what it’s like, your marriage, but with Grace it was always me wanting her. Even though I was the attorney general of the United States, even though I have a law degree from Yale and she was just a local girl who only went to two years of junior college, I think—I’m pretty sure—I love her more than she loves me. Not that that’s a bad thing. Every marriage is a balancing act, right? Kind of like a teeter-totter.”
Landry wasn’t sure why Franklin was telling him this. It didn’t seem important in the scheme of things. But Franklin’s time was growing short, so Landry decided to be polite and listen. Plus, Frank was a tremendous cook. And he had a way about him. Charming at times. He liked the fact that Franklin remained upbeat in the face of adversity. A glass-half-full kind of person. The eternal optimist.
Frank licked his lips. “Thing is, what I’m worried about, is she’s got this connection to a church. The Victorious Redemption Spiritual Church. Have you heard of it? It’s been in the news a lot.”
Until recently, Landry had paid no attention to the news. But when he became interested in Frank, he had researched him on the Internet—be prepared. He knew where Frank was going with this. Grace’s association with the church had taken up the whole first page of Google. Since talking about it was clearly cathartic for Frank, Landry pretended interest. It was the least he could do.
“The reverend there is…well, he’s kind of off-the-wall. He’s a…ah, I don’t know quite how to put this—he’s sticking his pecker in a lot of hornet’s nests. I know there have been death threats. And there’s at least two investigations into his dealings—”
“There are.”
“There are?”
“There are two investigations. There
“This is the second time you’ve corrected my grammar. You used to be an English teacher before you joined the FBI?”
“Let’s get on with the story. What kind of investigations?”
“Bribery. Money laundering. Something hinky going on there. Gunrunning, maybe, to the Congo. The minister, his name is Mister Wembi, and that’s what they call him, with the Mister always before the name, like it’s a second language or something. He’s white, but he spent a lot of time in Africa hunting witches—can you believe it? He was a ‘witch identifier.’ Even took the African name, which I think is weird. Probably a marketing ploy. Grace has donated a lot of money to the church, and she’s on the board—she’s, well, religious. It’s the one thing I don’t like about her. Well, that, and all the money she spends on the horses.”
“What kind of horses?” Landry asked, suddenly interested.
“Arabians. And Hackneys. She drives them.”
Hackneys. Some people.
“We’re not as rich as we used to be,” Frank mused. “I’d say we’ve lost about thirty percent of our wealth, which, when you think about it, isn’t too bad. But Grace doesn’t like the way we look to outsiders. Like we’re obscenely rich. She wants me to get rid of this boat, but I won’t. This is my baby. She’s got her horses and her church, and I’ve got the Hinckley.”
“Understandable,” Landry murmured.
Frank took both ends of his linen napkin and began twisting it in his fingers—an annoying distraction.
Landry said, “So what do you want from me?”
“I’d just like to keep that aspect—the church—quiet. It has nothing to do with any of this. The Shop. Nothing at all. I’m worried that if this guy, this reverend, gets wind of it, he’ll set her up to take the fall.”
“For the gunrunning and money laundering? How deep is she into this? It doesn’t sound like she’s just on the board.”
“It’s…the church is an obsession. I just don’t want her hurt. Those people—on some level, I think they’re dangerous. He is. He’s scary. A charismatic leader, kind of like the guy with the Kool-Aid, Jim Jones.”
Landry had had enough of this conversation. “Consider it done. We’ll keep that under our hat.”
“Good.” He was back to cheerful again. “That’s a big load off my mind.”
“No problem.”
“I was wondering…”
“What were you wondering?”
“Are those two men—the ones who were killed—are they still on board?”
Landry nodded. “I put them on ice, though, that’s why there’s no smell.”
“Ah, I see.” He thought about it. “The ice from the bait well?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really need them? Couldn’t we weigh them down and throw them overboard?”
“You know I can’t do that. That would be tampering with evidence. Besides,” he added, “they’re not eating anything.”
“I guess,” he said at last. “I just thought I’d give it a shot.”
Landry nodded, then got up and started clearing the table. “Can you write out that recipe for me?” he asked.
“Tell me about Danehill Security,” Landry said as they approached Indigo Island.
Franklin shrugged. “Not much to tell. I hired them a month ago when the shit started hitting the fan. Grace wanted me to go the cut-rate route, so we compared prices. They’re not exactly the A-Team. I’d say they’re more like the E-Team. Or even worse than that.”
“Oh?”
“These guys don’t have any discipline. It’s just a job to them. But you have to understand—I’m spoiled. As the attorney general, I had a topflight security detail.”
They came in on the leeward side, rounding the spit of land that ended St. Joseph Peninsula. Motored past the state park—white beaches, marshy areas, trees noisy with birds, wildlife, and campers. Next were the expensive houses and private docks. Up ahead, in the crook of the peninsula’s elbow, Landry saw two islands.
“Opal Island,” said Franklin, motioning to the smaller one. “It’s a resort. Very exclusive.”
Gated. Palm trees. Golf courses. A complex of buildings. All very high-toned, pristine. But the island had almost a plastic patina to it, like Saran Wrap. More Disney World than Florida panhandle. It didn’t look real.
